Three Strikes
by Yak-A-Lot
Summary: Teenage love is like a game, and the stakes are higher than ever for Greta "Bowie" Keene. She has fallen head over heels for the reputed bad boy of the school, Henry Bowers, but she has bitten off more than she can chew. Can they make it to third base before they strike out, or was this game doomed from the start? One-Shot. Lime.


**_A/N_**

 _Hey, everyone! Before we dive into this I would like to give a quick heads up. This fanfiction is my interpretation of what happened between Henry and Greta in the original script. I've altered the majority of the scene, but I kept the key elements. With that being said, this is also a splice between the book version of IT and the script. It still takes place in the 1980s._

 _ **Warning:**_ _This story contains strong sexual themes, references to illegal substances, and briefly mentions something noncon. The author does not personally agree with the character's viewpoints, but has done their best to portray them accurately according to the source material. If anyone believes I should bump up the rating, please let me know._

* * *

Greta "Bowie" Keene was practically born with a silver spoon dangling from her pink lips, anything in the world her heart desired could be hers if her _dearest_ parents slapped down the necessary amount of cash. She, like the other kids that came from wealth, lived on West Broadway Street. Any high school student regardless of their upbringing could recognize her house. It was the one with the croquet set out back, and a picture perfect green lawn to match the shingles on their roof. If someone were to take a ruler to their lawn, they would find each blade of grass was not even a centimeter different in height. It was the kind of back-breaking upkeep that the Keene family could not do if their life depended on it, and instead they had hired assistance.

It just so happened that Greta had craved something outside of her cookie-cutter life and he had a name, too. It was a name that Greta had often found herself scribbling all over her homework, complete with hearts and curly cursive letters. His name was Henry Bowers, and no matter how many times his name was written in pink gel pens, he would never match the misconceptions Greta had about him. It was just another school girl crush- fueled by fairy tales and unrealistic expectations. Even so, she pursed them valiantly.

Today, the doodles warped into something with purpose. Even if it took half a dozen pep talks (courtesy of her posse, Sally Muller and Marcia Fadden) she reached the only reasonable conclusion: She'd have to approach him, as terrifying as that was. The pen, as if on its own accord, danced along the paper sheet. Truth be told she should have been copying down notes that her teacher, Mrs. Douglas, had been writing on the board. Instead her pen left directions and practically vomited glitter ink in its wake. Enclosed on it was an invite, complete with her address- though her reputation precedes her, and she is sure of that. Everyone at their school knew if they were looking for a wild party they would just have to travel down West Broadway and listen for the music, booming from the latest speakers money could be.

What Henry Bowers lacked in social status, he certainly made up for in other ways. He was the epitome of the bad boy stereotype that all the freshman girls fawned over, there is a distinctive edge to his appearance that draws people in like flies drifting towards a bug zapper and consequently their impending doom. Despite being only sixteen years old, he is ropey with farm muscle and his skin is lightly tanned with patterns that indicate a working career. These are the markings of Henry that are as fundamental to his character as a stripes are to identifying a tiger. Who could forget his leather cladden body, complete with scuffed up boots and jeans that were ripped as a result of roughhousing and not so much as a fashion statement? Then there was that horrendously tacky leather jacket, the brightly colored one (pink) with the American eagle on the back. It was exactly the type of jacket Greta fantasized about stealing just so she would never have to see him wear it again. _Yuck._

Greta pulls herself out of her daydream and glances back down to the note in hand. She rips it out of her notebook with the precision of a toddler tearing into his Christmas presents on the morning of the twenty-fifth. She had to steal another look in Henry's direction to make sure he was still there, despite the fact he was often times so disruptive in class it was hard to miss him. She folds the note once, twice, and by the third fold she is satisfied with her work and decides that it would take x-ray vision to see what it said from the outside. With a smirk plastered on her lip gloss coated lips, she passes the note behind her. It exchanges hands several times before Henry finds it placed in the midst of his grafiti littered desk. He has barely opened the note when the bell rings, dismissing the kids for the rest of the day. Just like that, Greta is gone and Henry is left to sit in his desk, dumbstruck.

* * *

From that moment onward, Henry was on autopilot. He went from the classroom to the front doors of the school and at some point (he is not sure when, exactly) he meets up with the rest of his so-called gang. Once they reach the Trans Am the note is passed around to each and every one of them as well as a pack of smokes. No one speaks until they are satisfied with the distribution and the car fills with that pungent odor that has Henry cracking a window for sweet relief- now would normally be the time where he criticized their taste in cigarettes or made some harsh remark about the things that were _better_ to smoke but now he is silent.

Reginald "Belch" Huggins is the first to blurt out a remark, something that he is well known for. He may not be the brightest, but he said what everyone else was thinking,"I think you should go. A girl like Greta is probably gonna put out on the first date, and I bet she has someone for the rest of us to hook up with."

Victor Criss, who had been hanging out towards the back seat, leaned over the center console until he was sandwiched between the two front seats."We're talking about cheerleaders. Sally Muller, Marcia Fadden, every other snobby rich bitch on West Broadway-"

Henry rolled his eyes and cranked down the window the rest of the way, letting his arm dangle out as the small town of Derry passed them by in a blur."What happened to Marcia and Peter?"

"They broke up last Monday, I bet she's just _dying_ for a rebound." Belch shrugged it off,"Who cares? We haven't been invited to a party ever since we got kicked out of the last one."

"It's not my fault, Taliendo was just asking to get the shit beat out of him that night." Henry grabbed ahold of the rearview mirror and twisted it to face him, picking at his teeth absentmindedly. Everyone but him seemed to know his oral hygiene was a lost cause.

The rest of his gang exchanged a concerned glance, as if to disagree with Henry's words before finally Victor piped up,"Yeah, whatever man. I think we should go."

"Who said we weren't?"

* * *

 _Lights, music, action._

Every single member of the Bowers' gang stuck out like a sore thumb at the scene of the party. Their clothes didn't reflect the extravagancies that were so commonplace on this street, but the Trans Am they exited seemed to make them right at home. Parking was a nightmare but once they strolled up the sidewalk to the house of the Keene family the reaction was well worth it. Everyone seemed to take note of them. Bullies and popular kids were separate entities, though they often coincided with each other. In this circumstance, there was talk that the Bowers' gang status as bullies was starting to bleed into the social circle of the popular kids. This was a sentient that was expressed with excitement for some and others were about ready to begin their mourning.

The cleats of Henry's dirt caked boots had barely disgraced the shag carpet of the Keene's residence when he found himself surrounded with a girl on each side and the party host herself in front of him. Behind him, the two members of his gang clamored with excitement. Just as previously expected, Marcia was unaccompanied by her date - or rather ex boyfriend- Peter. The number one friend rule was out that door in the moment they laid eyes on her, and they were already trying to lay dibs on Greta's friends.

"Friends of yours?" Greta raised her red cup to indicate the goons behind her _special_ guest, before giving a little sniff to indicate displeasure _._ She certainly hadn't indicated a +1 on her invite.

Before any of the boys could open their mouths (and anything that would follow would certainly be unintelligible babble) Marcia stepped forward with an air of haughtiness."Yeah, they're on the same baseball team as Peter! I used to watch them all the time at the Tracker Brother's place." She gripped onto each of their arms, her red nails digging into exposed flesh as she tugged them along to the table of drinks."Come on, Sally."

Greta raised her eyebrows, both condemining and commending her quick thinking behavior. On one hand, her eagerness to tote two boys around as if she was collecting merit badges just screamed high school slut- poor Sally had to break into a sprint to compete with the so called expert on all things Bowers' gang. Henry was the one to break the silence, but his comment was worse than everything the others had to say- combined. "Let's just hope the shit on Peter's face wasn't contagious."

Greta bit her lip to stifle her laughter, but in the process she almost choked on her gum. From that moment onward, they were a couple forged in the deepest pits of hell. Her insinuations were clear in the manner she moved her body, there was an ethereal level of grace as she practically floated up the stairs to the story of the house that contained her bedroom. The crowd of teenagers parted like the red sea, no one would dare stand in their way for fear they would invoke the wrath of the pair. It seemed it was a fine night for picking cherries, and Henry was no stranger to the fruits of labor.

Even far away from the eccentric light show and the wildest rock and roll their era had to offer, there were still shadows dancing along the walls and a low rumble that was just barely distinguishable- like white noise. Akin to that of a fly buzzing around in the foreground of a room, easy enough to tune out unto itself.

From the wicked dance from the bedroom door to the haphazardly made queen sized bed, their lips were a mash of teeth, tongue and their bodies entangled in a web of limbs. By the time Greta's back flopped onto her mattress, there was already a particularly greedy hand wriggling up under her top and consequently the cotton bra beneath it. When their lips parted, it was only to fill their burning lungs with oxygen- as if in the heat of the moment they had both forgotten how to breathe.

"You know," Greta huffed out, adjusting her body against the eldest of the pair,"You're lucky you didn't bring that freak Patrick. You'd be crucified." Her attempts at stirring a conversation went unappreciated, and she squirmed as his hand still went on a conquest to grope her bare breast.

"Yeah? Is he another ex boyfriend I should be looking out for? " With some difficulty he managed to undo the clasp of her bra, and it along with her shirt was removed within moments. Now beneath his full weight, Greta realized how alarming his strength was.

"God no- I bet he'd roofie all the girls. If you knew what that freak did back in grade school, I bet you'd beat him up for me." She pouted her lips, bringing her knee up until it connected with the crotch of Henry's jeans. This caused a jolt through his body, but he remained hovering above her.

"What'd you do? Flash your training bra while on the monkey bars?" Despite the smirk twisting his lips, Greta did not seem amused in the least bit. That comment was one syllable away from a slap, and half of her mind told her she should back out now. Henry silenced any verbal expression of disapproval with another kiss, and with time she found herself melting against it. Strike one.

Henry's hands now descended upon the newly exposed flesh, rough, calloused hands that had known many hard hours of farm work. They felt so foreign to her, as if they had marred her bare skin so that no amount of lotion would ever remove such a harsh feeling. A squeeze brought a sting of pain that had her eyes fluttering open, but they were so hazy with lust she couldn't keep them open even if she wanted to.

Greta was the one who eventually escalated the situation, her hands tracing the muscles of his chest before they slid down lower and lower- until finally they settled onto Henry's blue jeans. She thumbed the button for a moment, hesitating, before she undid it in one jerky movement and dipped her hand inside. Boxers and all.

Whatever reaction she had hoped to elicit from him was far from the case. In her mind she pictured something no less than Mentos dropped into a bottle of Diet Coca Cola. The exact type of juvenile behavior she had witnessed from the Bowers' gang in the soda shop when they were in middle school. "Are you sure I'm doing this right?" Now the thoughts of doubt creeped up onto her, and she parted from the kiss once again. Her eyebrows knit in confusion, and her eyes also displayed concern of the genuine variety.

Henry could only scoff in response, and in one fluid movement he had seized her by a fistful of blonde hair. Afterwards, he yanked her head down until she was forced to sit up and move down in front of his parted zipper fly. "No, you're not doing it hard enough. Open your mouth." The sudden shift in his demeanor was so alarming, it was as if all the color had drained from his icy blue eyes and they were left with black pits. It was only strike two, but Greta could not bear to tough it out to see how else he could escalate the situation.

"Leave," She stated, so low it could have been mistaken for a whisper, but when Henry didn't get the message she repeated herself."I said get your ass out of my room! Go!" She flung a pillow at him for good measures, and even though her voice cracked somewhere along her demand, Henry still stumbled to his feet and scurried out of the bedroom in a hurry.

As he flew down the stairs in a hasty retreat, Henry was still in the process of zipping his pants up and adjusting them into their rightful place onto his hips. The entirety of the party witnessed this in silence, until it was broken by their combined cheering and hooting. Henry had done _IT,_ with what was presumably the most prudish girl in all of Derry. Strangers had clapped him on the back as he went, offering him partially empty cups of booze in a toast of celebration, but he didn't so much as acknowledge them. He was on a mission to locate Victor and Belch before things got ugly.

At six feet tall, Belch poked out of the crowd- literally, rather than metaphorically. If it meant leaving the party before he was forcibly kicked out, he was willing to pry his best friend from Marcia Fadden even if they they were locked zipper to zipper. Once he found Belch, he did just that. He placed a hand on each of the happy couple's shoulders and jerked them apart with exact amount of force that was necessary to do so."Alright, the fun is over folks. He's my ride and would you look at the time." Henry tapped at his bare wrist as if he was reading an imaginary watch, but it seemed as if neither of them comprehended the importance of timing.

"You son of a bitch," Belch spoke between chuckles, anyone with half a brain cell would take note of the lip gloss residue around Henry's lip and how his pants remained askew. Even a brute like Belch could do a simple equation like this."Think we could drive the girls home, too?" Marcia could only giggle, her face flushed from what was presumably alcohol in her system. By the shit-faced look on her delicate features, there hadn't been a whole lot of conversation that night.

Henry blinked twice, as if taken aback that someone would question his authority when the situation was clearly urgent. When he replied, it was blunt- almost as if the answer was so obvious, obvious enough that asking the question had been pointless."Oh yeah, sure, let's just make sure to go to my house first so that when Butch breaks out the fuckin' breathalyzer I can watch the look on your faces as he murders you all- _slowly._ " His words are followed by a quick smack to the back of Belch's head, although the only reaction this earns him is a flinch.

"Christ, you made your point. Let's just get this over with." As Belch was carted off to the other side of the house, he glanced back at Maricia and mouthed the words _call me._ Whether or not she would remember his number come morning was debatable, but for now they would need their combined talents to locate Victor amongst the rest of the partygoers.

As it turns out, Victor wasn't that far off. He could recognize the sound of Henry's cleated boots anywhere- whether they be on shag carpet, pavement, or tile- and he came out of his hiding spot with an equally dishevelled Sally. Before he could even make an inquiry on the sudden urgency of their departure, Henry put him back into his place with a glare.

The three of them had barely left the front porch of the Keene residence when someone ran up to greet them- Peter Gordon himself, but he didn't come baring welcome gifts but rather his old baseball bat. At the sight of him, the three of them split into random directions- all shouting at once about the safety of the Trans Am. The bat came close to hitting them several times, but it always dug into the sidewalk just a few inches to the left or perhaps even the right.

"Stay away from her- from all of them! Moose told me all about what you guys came here to do." He spat out, in too much of a frenzy to coordinate the swing of his bat properly. He wore a letterman's jacket, but money couldn't buy the skill in order to represent his sports team with pride. His crop of acne was noticeable, and if they hadn't feared for their lives the Bowers' gang would have laughed at his appearance. It wasn't always like this, at one time they called him an ally. Back when they were young, back when their social class didn't divide them right down the middle.

"The keys! Get the fucking keys-" Henry shrieked out, nearly tripping on thin air as he bolted towards the car. He reached it before the other two, and he was left to smack the door frantically and jerk on the door handle."Come on, come on!"

When Belch reached the driver's side, he nearly dropped the keys while inserting them into the lock. Even after he had flung the door open, it was a race against time to reach over the center console and push down the lock on Henry's door to grant him access. Even when the three of them climbed into the car with a sudden urgency that suggested it was life or death, they knew they wouldn't be safe even if the doors were locked.

Their suspicions were confirmed when the baseball bat collided with the back window of the car, spraying glass across the whole backseat and Victor who could do nothing but shout out alarm. As their attacker reared his weapon up for another swing, the car lurched forward and onto the paved roads of West Broadway. Not one of them spoke until they pulled out onto the main roads, at which point they exchanged fearful glances at one another before bursting into laughter. It was a joyous noise of triumph that had all of their sides aching. Not even the damage done to the Trans Am could dim their happiness: They had survived.

"Damn, why didn't you just say Peter was riding your ass? I couldn't figure out what the big rush was back there." Belch chuckled, one hand on the steering wheel although neither eyes were on the road. It was a wonder that he hadn't gotten all of his passengers killed, though perhaps he felt invincible after staring a bat wielding maniac in the eye and living to tell the tale.

"I dunno." Henry shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, feigning innocence on the matter. He hadn't the slightest clue that his old pal Peter had arrived to crash the party; he had been solely out to save his own skin. He would deny any of Greta's claims vehemently, and he supposed that all of the high schoolers would eat it up like candy. Henry was an expert at twisting words around until he had the whole school buying into _his_ version of the story. Except one person.

Victor's gaze remained fixed on their so called ring-leader. He had immediately detected something was off but decided against bringing it up. He was the brightest of the Bower's gang, which wasn't saying all that much. For a brief moment, the two boys made eye contact. In this wordless gesture, they spoke a million words. Victor heard it all too clearly, and he didn't like what his leader had to say.

 _I'll kill you slowly if you tell anyone my secret._


End file.
